by Harold Coyle
Leopole inhaled, held his breath, then exhaled. “That’s it, then. We go tonight. Briefing in three-zero mikes.”
At that, Leopole motioned to Lee. They walked several paces, then stopped. “Steve, who’s your rear entry team?”
“Ashcroft, Green, Henderson, Jacobs, Olsen, and Pace.”
Leopole thought for a moment. “Okay. Ashcroft and Green are top shooters, though I think Green’s slightly nuts.” He shrugged. “But that’s okay with me if it’s okay with you. Henderson and Jacobs are solid; Olsen and Pace seem pretty laid back.” He looked his old comrade in the eye. “We just don’t need any hotdogging on this job. There’s too much at stake.”
“Yes, sir, I know. And so do they.”
* * *
The briefing began before sundown. Thirty operators crowded the building where Leopole had set up an easel with a blackboard. He preferred a modern whiteboard that accepted different colors, but that might draw attention. Besides, he could still erase the briefing points and wash the board clean of any residual markings.
“People, this is why we came. This is what our friends died for.” He took time to scan the room, taking in each man’s face, reading the owner’s demeanor. Most were impassive; two or three already had their game faces on. “One thing this is not is payback. We need the doctor alive and talking, and it may not be possible to pick him out of a crowd. So it’s Roy Rogers time. If you have time, use a Taser. If not, shoot to disable if possible.”
It was obvious that nobody liked the ROE, but most understood the need.
“For this mission to work, we need to surprise those people.” He paused, then added, “No, that’s not quite right. We need to astonish them. Here’s how we’ll do it: White Team is the entry team with Red on security. The Whites in the entry team will wear bio suits. You may not need ‘em, but we just don’t know what’s in there.”
Leopole turned to the blackboard. “Here’s the setup. A small house with a couple of outbuildings and some stock pens. There are goats and sheep, and probably some dogs. Expect them to cause a ruckus. If we can get close enough without them smelling us, we’ll use suppressed weapons to take them down. Otherwise, the security element will neutralize them as quickly as possible.”
“We’ll take a quick look at the situation before we deploy, but right now we don’t expect many bad guys. Sharif doesn’t seem to have much of an escort, apparently to avoid drawing attention to himself. You have his description. I wish we had a current photo but the sketch is close. He’s tall, thin, late forties, reportedly with a full beard. Just remember that info may not be current. Things could have changed since Johnson saw him.”
Leopole drew the perimeter he wanted. “Red, you’ll deploy in a 360 around the farm, about hundred meters out. Even with part of White, that means a lot of open space between each man. But our bird may fly the coop, and if he gets out, we need to shortstop him ASAP.”
Foyte raised a hand. “Colonel, I was discussing the arrangement with Major Lee. We risk friendly-fire casualties with the full-circle perimeter.”
“I know, Gunny. But it’s unavoidable. Besides, that’s why you get the big bucks.” Leopole waited for the perfunctory laughter to abate, then added, “If you have to shoot into the compound, try to hold low. That’s the best we can do.”
He turned back to the board. “Okay, whatever happens inside, we want to get out as quickly as possible. We’ll take any prisoners by air to avoid interception in case they have backup in place. When I give the word, our primary bird will land here in the open just south of the house.” He drew an X on the board and circled it. “It’ll fly to a spot I’ve arranged with General Hardesty before returning to base. That way, any unfriendlies at Quetta won’t see anything except night helo ops.”
Breezy whispered to Bosco, who nudged him hard. The minor feud prompted Leopole to interject. “Something we need to hear, gentlemen?”
Breezy looked at the floor. “Ah, nosir.”
Bosco shot his partner a frosty glance. He chose not to respond to Breezy’s observation that people accidentally fell out of helicopters all the time.
“Okay, one other thing,” Leopole added. “If there’s any reason to believe the house is a hot zone, we’ll get the entry team out as soon as possible. At that point Dr. Padgett-Smith will look at the evidence and make a determination. We have some biosafe boxes to transport any cultures or other lab items. In the unlikely event there’s more than we can handle, we’ll notify the Pakistani Army, which will take over.”
Padgett-Smith rose to speak for the first time. “Colonel Leopole, we may need decontamination measures.”
“Yes, ma’am. The helos will bring in the equipment, including chlorine and portable pumps. We’ll bag all suits and clothes and triple wrap them in the bags you brought, Doctor.” She nodded and sat down.
Leopole erased the blackboard and dusted his hands of chalk. “Any more questions?”
There were none, as he expected. “Right. We have this one shot, gentlemen. Let’s make it work.”
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
“Maqsad and Badlah are ready, Doctor.”
Ali looked up from the wood table. He was triple-checking the boys’ travel documents when Kassim interrupted. Glancing at his watch, the veterinarian reflected that, as usual, his colleague was punctual. The timetable for transit to the departure point had been computed with forty minutes to spare.
The doctor tapped one of the passports upon the table. “Truly, I hope that they are ready, Kassim. This is the most complex plan yet. It requires some people we do not know to fill their part of the bargain in three other countries.” He leaned toward his friend. “What do you think?”
The veteran shrugged. “The boys are as prepared as time has allowed. As for the others, I believe they will serve us through faith or money.”
Ali nodded slowly, visualizing the young warriors abroad in a foreign, hostile land. “Yes, I would prefer another month of English language and instruction on travel and security procedures. I believe that Badlah will be satisfactory. Maqsad will rely heavily upon him.”
Both men had taken to calling the recruits by their noms de guerre. It made for better security among the other cell members, let alone any strangers who may pass within earshot.
Kassim asked, “When do you expect them to start showing signs of the virus?”
“Based on the usual dormant period, no more than one week. However, Badlah’s poor health may cause him to break out sooner than that. I would prefer it otherwise, as Maqsad will not function as well without his adopted brother to rely upon.”
“It would be preferable to send them to different destinations, but I understand the need to keep them together.”
“There are several things I would do differently, Kassim. But time is short. The Crusaders are certainly still hunting us. We would know if they had left Quetta. This may be our last opportunity to dispatch biological warriors against the Zionists, so we must do what we can while we can.”
Kassim shifted his weight onto his good leg. “You believe they will find us?”
“Almost certainly. I am mildly surprised that we have not been betrayed from within.’ Ali raised a cautionary hand. “I mean no disrespect to any of your men, but it has always been a risk.”
“Yes, I know.”
Ali stood up. “We should send our couriers on their way with their message. When do you expect to return?”
Kassim had the schedule well in mind. “Probably no later than one in the morning. My contacts in Islamabad will inform me when both fighters have boarded their airplane. With two changes of vehicles and drivers, it should be nearly impossible for anyone to track the boys.”
“Good. Then we only need wait two days before they board their plane.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Then let us send them on their way to Paradise.”
30
BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE
Leopole checked his watch: 2317 on a night with a q
uarter moon. He keyed his mike. “Comm check. Three minutes.”
“Red. Check.”
“White. Check”
“Perimeter. Check.”
With everyone in place, Leopole scanned the target area again. The landscape and buildings glowed crisply green in his night-vision scope. The Litton showed nothing moving except a couple of goats in a nearby pen. Then a movement caught his attention. A dog uncurled itself from a hay bale it had been using as a bed. It rose, lifted a leg… and stopped. Leopole froze. He realized that the wind had shifted; he felt it on the back of his neck.
The dog — a mutt of indeterminate origin — raised its snout and sensed the wind. Leopole made a quick decision. He called White Team’s snipers. “White Scope, take the dog.”
“Roger that.” Furr’s voice was subdued, controlled. Six seconds later Leopole saw the animal drop. The effect of the 190-grain flat-tail bullet was dramatic, as if a switch had been thrown. There was almost no sound as the eight-inch AWC can on the end of the barrel absorbed the violently expanding gases of the.308 round. One hundred thirty meters out, prone behind the Robar SR-90, Robbie Furr ran the bolt and recovered from recoil, his crosshairs on the dog’s inert form. His spotter, Rick Barrkman, called the shot. “Shoulder, a little high.”
Leopole resumed his observation, listening as much as looking. As his illuminated watch flicked over to 2320 he made the call. “Red and White. Go!”
White Team deployed quickly, ghosting along the ground, moving smoothly toward the front door. Red went to the rear. Leopole was mentally congratulating his operators on their efficiency when lights snapped on in the house. A window opened facing Leopole’s overlook. He saw a man silhouetted there.
Gunfire erupted from the front and side of the house. Muzzle flashes competed with blue tracers slashing the darkness.
Things quickly turned to hash.
* * *
“Crusaders!”
The sentry would never have a chance to tell, but he had dozed off. However, when White Team’s lead pair stepped through the rough gate in the rail fence, the motion detector betrayed them. Its audible warble awakened the al Qaeda guard from his light slumber, and he shouted the alarm.
Ali had been asleep in the back room. Almost simultaneous with the front warning, the rear approach’s laser beam was broken as an American passed through it. Realizing that the house would be breached in at least two places, Ali rolled off his cot, grabbed his ancient .455 Webley, and dashed to the refrigerator. He took two syringes off the shelf, placing one in each vest pocket.
Silently, Ali gave thanks for the simple anti-intruder devices that Americans sold for less than twenty dollars.
Then he grabbed his cell phone and punched in the two-digit number for Kassim. Marvelous bit of technology — one had to hand it to the Americans. Speed dialing definitely had its advantages. For no particular reason, with gunfire all around him, rounds incoming and outgoing, Ali recalled a philosophical argument he once had with a fundamentalist imam. The holy man eschewed modern inventions, deeming them unworthy of The Prophet’s followers.
But the Muslim priest had never needed reinforcements against hostile ghosts that could see in the dark.
* * *
“Don’t stop in the kill zone! Don’t stop!” At the head of White Team, Breezy threw an M8 smoke grenade, knowing it would provide two minutes of screening from enemy view. The inevitable confusion had set in, however. Some men advanced without urging while others waited the order to keep moving. Breezy clapped one operator on the back of the helmet — he couldn’t tell who it was in the dark — as the man was vulnerable in the open, even while prone. Breezy aimed short, crisp bursts at window height, moving his muzzle horizontally in an effort to suppress the fire from the house. He had no idea how he avoided being hit during the dash to the building.
Five meters out he dropped on his side and rolled against the exterior wall, right of the door. He dropped his near-empty magazine, tugged another from his vest, and fumbled the exchange. Finally he forced himself to look at the MP’s mag well and completed the reload. A few feet away somebody was blasting with an AK. The muzzle flash was impressive, the high, sharp bark of the 7.62 rounds pained the ears.
Breezy decided against a three-foot shootout with the AK gunner. Instead, he lifted a cylindrical flash-bang from his harness, pulled the pin and let the spoon go. He counted one-potato, two-potato and made a sidearm toss on the third potato.
The stun grenade cooked inside for 1.5 seconds, then erupted like a miniature volcano. The flash — one million candela mixed with 175 decibels of sonic violence — blinded and stunned anyone within five feet.
The grenade burst with a concussive effect magnified by the building’s walls. Gunfire from the front room immediately slackened. By then Delmore was beside Breezy. He shouted, “Cover!” Breezy hefted his MP, aimed at the window, and responded, “Covering!” Seconds later Delmore slapped the charging handle with a palm-downward motion, chambering the first round off the fresh mag. “Ready!”
Sporadic gunfire resumed from inside the house. Several rounds punched through the wooden wall above their heads. More rounds splintered the boards on either side — additional suppressive fire from Leopole’s perimeter team.
Breezy made the call. “Control, this is White. We’re goin’ in!”
Seconds dribbled past. Then Leopole’s raspy voice was on the air. “Roger that. We’re lifting our fires. Wait my word, over.”
Breezy knew that the perimeter shooters would raise their aim points to reduce chances of friendly fire casualties. Then Leopole was back in his ears. “Red Team, ready, ready, ready. Go!”
* * *
At the rear, Red Team met less resistance. Only two of Ali’s men were stationed there, hosing long, optimistic bursts at the shadowy figures in the barnyard. Jeff Malten noticed that they were disciplined, however, alternating their shooting so that only one had to reload at a time. They’ve done this before.
Malten tossed a smoke grenade and prepared to lead his team to the rear door. He stood up to go, looked back — and saw Olsen take a hit and go down. Malten was momentarily stunned. My god, where’d that come from? Then he saw muzzle flashes from the small barn fifty meters to his left.
Pace low-crawled to Olsen and checked him. A.303 round had struck the ballistic chest plate near the bottom. Three inches lower and it would have hit flesh. Olsen was breathing hard, bruised but otherwise unhurt.
Malten made a snap decision. He motioned part of his team to deal with the unexpected threat from the barn. He watched as Ashcroft, Green, and Jacobs threw more smoke grenades and scrambled wide to the left. Henderson and Pace swapped gunfire with the shooters in the barn while Malten turned his attention back to the rear of the house.
The occupants of the barn expected a flanking movement and deployed to meet it. They nearly hit Jacobs but he had been a track man in school and sprinted across the open space left by the smoke. When the three reached the rear of the barn, they quickly scouted the layout: there was no rear access. Ashcroft reloaded his G3 rifle and prepared to assault around the corner when Green grabbed him. “Never fight anybody when you can execute ‘em.”
“What?”
Green held up an M34 grenade, light green with a yellow band. He had been hoarding two of them since leaving Arlington. “Cover me.”
With his friends watching left and right, Green dashed ten strides along the wooden wall and threw the white phosphorous grenade inside. Rather than dash back, he withdrew several steps, holding his rifle at shoulder height. Seconds later a garish white flash erupted inside, setting a smoky blaze that burned at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. It spewed particles on the walls and roof, and in barely a minute half of the barn’s dried wood was burning.
Green heard Ashcroft’s HK around the corner. Three, four, five rounds. Jacobs swung that way to lend a hand, but it was unnecessary. Ashcroft held up his left hand, two fingers extended. “They ran out on this side. One of �
��em was on fire.”
Jacobs asked, “Where’d they go?”
Ashcroft pointed in reply. Twenty to thirty meters away lay two bodies, one smoldering.
Green reappeared, hefting his second grenade. “Damn!” Jacobs exclaimed. “I gotta get me some of them.”
* * *
Between the barn and the house, Malten threw his last smoke, waited for the cloud to expand, and watched the suppressing fire drive the shooters from the windows. Then he led his half team to the rear of the house. Henderson placed a breaching charge on the door, twisted the dial for a quick fuse, and turned away. The small charge exploded with a loud, hollow noise, and the door swung on its hinges.
Pace tossed a flash-bang. So did Henderson. Malten was instantly inside, the others two steps behind. One of the shooters lay on the floor, rolling in pain from the horrific noise of the stun grenades. Malten kicked the man’s AK away and watched the entrance to the next room. Henderson dragged the casualty outside where Pace secured him by the simple expedient of sitting on him.
The second shooter was deafened by the grenades, but retained most of his vision. Kneeling behind the doorsill, he extended his AK sideways and triggered a long, unaimed burst that went high and wide. Malten raised his fourteen-inch Benelli and fired two slugs from fifteen feet. The first one-and-a-quarter-ounce projectile splintered the doorsill, sending wood pieces into the shooter’s face. Reflexively, he turned to avoid the shotgun blast, exposing his torso in the process.
The second slug took him in the notch of the sternum. He went down hard. Malten covered him, reckoned he was dead, and by feel thumbed another slug into the five-round tube.
“Clear!”
Two more of the rear entry team joined Malten while the rest guarded the rear approaches.
At that point they heard gunfire from the front of the house.
* * *
After White Team’s flash-bangs detonated, Breezy and Delmore led their sections through the door. Breezy went left, Delmore went right. Two al Qaeda men rolled in agony on the floor, deaf and blinded by the stun grenades. The rear man in each section immediately secured them.
